Pentle Bay, Tresco
I look back on my short, five-day trip to Tresco in the Isles of Scilly rather as one recalls a comforting childhood fairy tale. It has left an impressionistic image of sweeping sea views with a stunningly warm golden light in the evenings when we were lucky enough to have sunshine, white-washed stone cottages, exotic plants, a tiny 134-year-old church, lungs full of fresh air, wobbly adults cycling for the first time in years, golf buggies (the island’s main form of transport: there are no cars) and – perhaps best of all – almost constantly giggling children. All sounding a bit whimsical? Well, it mostly is. Tresco is often quaint – old-fashioned, even – but, as far as I’m concerned, in the best possible ways. All sounding rose-tinted? Again, yes, but I really did love practically every second of it – even in the cool early-summer rain.
I think it’s an age thing, but as much as I enjoy the temptations and ever-changing choices of the bright-lights-big-city life, I often yearn to get away from it all, especially people. Deepest, darkest Cornwall has been my retreat for a few years now – walking the coastal path outside the summer months, it is quite possible not to see another person for ages (I’ve sometimes not seen anyone but my other half for a good five hours). Driving past the heliport at Penzance, I’d regularly remind my boyfriend that we still hadn’t flown over to the Scillies, which I was sure would be quiet and sparsely populated (why else would Jude Law love bringing all his children, Sadie Frost and Gary Kemp over?) and where we could see the famous gardens (another sign of age, perhaps: we do love good horticulture). Sadly, the helicopter passenger service from here to the Isles of Scilly ended on 1 November 2012 – the end of an era, and I’m sad to have missed my chance – but there’s still the choice of a plane from several airports in south-west England to St Mary’s island, a short boat ride away, or the steamer Scillonian III from Penzance (beware seasickness), or, if you’re really lucky, you could sail over in your own boat.
Arriving with the threat of a rainy few days in early summer, I wondered if I might start to feel trapped, like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner
As I started my journey on the train from Brighton, I considered the facts. A tiny (2.5 miles x 1 mile) private island in Scilly with just 150 or so permanent residents, an endlessly changing intake of, on the whole, well-heeled holidaymakers (away from the mainland, it is a naturally pricey place), just three or four scheduled boats leaving every day, and only one pub. I’d been invited to accompany a dear friend, her fabulously ants-in-pants five-year-old son (my gorgeous godson), another friend of theirs whom I’d yet to meet and her six-year-old boy. Arriving with the threat of a rainy few days in early summer, I wondered if I might start to feel trapped, like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner (and at least Portmeirion, where that was filmed, is a private peninsula, not an island, so there is an easy escape route for those of us who are not numbers but free men). It’s funny, but I don’t remember having this anxiety when I travelled to Parrot Cay, the super-exclusive – and, as it turned out, utterly idyllic – private island belonging to Christina Ong in the Turks and Caicos. It must have been something to do with the vagaries of the British weather and even, possibly, the fact that I would still be in Britain – away from it all, and yet not quite…
Tresco, Isles of Scilly
I needn’t have worried. From the moment we checked in at Exeter and boarded the little Skybus plane (some 14 seats, some vacant) for the gently bouncing 60-minute flight, goodwill prevailed and set the tone for the holiday. Again, it might sound cloying, but Scillonians seem to be special people, kind people who enjoy life. The taxi driver who drove us from St Mary’s airport to the main quay, the cool young guy who’d moved from the southern hemisphere and skippered us over to Tresco, the manager at the Tresco island office – they all seem to know how lucky they are. And they all smile.
Tresco itself is charming, and well cared for. Perhaps even a little too manicured for some, but it has gorgeously unspoilt, quiet, clean beaches, is wonderfully airy and light, and is both pretty – flowers seem to pop up everywhere – and dramatic – the landscape up towards the ruin of the 16th-century King Charles’s Castle is almost lunar, and you can feel miles away from civilisation up there. Bingo! Apart from the odd seal bobbing about in the water, solitude is almost guaranteed if you walk in the right direction – in this case to the north-west of the island (and past the nicest resting place for horses I’ve ever seen).
Abbey Garden
We stayed in the Seapink, a swanky new rental house – one of the 16 new rental homes that replaced the Tresco Hotel. Though not entirely to my taste (I’d prefer something older, cosier and more homely, which I suspect is what you get if you rent one of those dinky whitewashed Tresco holiday cottages), it is perfectly positioned overlooking Long Point and towards Old Grimsby Bay. And with its oak flooring, underfloor heating, large patio and barbecue area, plus small lawn at the back, and loads of paintings and artworks, it caters perfectly to its target clients (I’m guessing pretty demanding wealthy Brits and Americans) and has everything they could need, including TVs and wi-fi, which I most emphatically did not want on this kind of holiday, but I can see it is obligatory for hotels/rentals of this standard today.
Seapink is roomy, with a large kitchen-diner (huge fridge and ice-maker, dishwasher and all mod cons), a living area off that and a large sitting room at the back – great for the kids’ pre-dinner telly viewing (OK, TV turns out to be pretty vital for them, or perhaps their mothers, on a rainy evening). There are three bedrooms: one bright, yellow master bedroom with small balcony and en-suite shower room; a smaller green twin-bedded room at the back with family bathroom next door; and my room, a sweet symphony in pink with two single beds, a bit tight for space for two adults, but with twin aspect and a lovely view over the cottages’ front gardens. (I was allowed to monopolise the shower room downstairs – which wouldn’t have been the case if we’d had another couple of guests utilising the sofa bed downstairs.) The only downside at the moment is the slightly goldfish-bowl effect: a path leading to the indoor swimming pool and beyond runs directly alongside the house, the patio/barbecue area and back lawn, so it would have been difficult to remain private/unseen when outside on sunny days (not a problem for us, sadly). I say “at the moment”, as I suspect plants and greenery might grow up to provide some cover – but until then, I’d avoid sunbathing in the nuddy.
He even lives in this glorious subtropical garden, stuffed with exotic plants, all living outside (ie, not in protective greenhouses), over 300 of them flowering even in winter and which could not survive in soggy, cold mainland Britain
By day, we cycled (there are Tagalongs for small children) or walked everywhere, even in the rain. There’s not much of a hill on Tresco, but it’s enough to get the not-so-fit out of breath on two wheels. We swam in the pool – the sea was too chilly, and not a great idea with children who are still learning – ate great pizzas and very good fish dishes in the Ruin Beach Café, and spent a small fortune on basics and delicious Cornish cheeses at Tresco Stores and Delicatessen, which famously stocks a decent range of top-marque champagnes, will deliver for free and will also supply fresh, chef-prepared meals to your door for heating up chez vous. One showery afternoon, we booked a little “sealife adventure” trip near the uninhabited Eastern Isles on a small RIB, which turned out to be particularly thrilling for the boys – I suspect less because of the razorbills, baby seals and puffin (yes, a solitary one) we saw and more because of the bumpy ride, the speed and the sharp jabs of rain that turned our faces into pin cushions (not nearly so thrilling for us putting-on-a-brave-face women but, I opined, probably much cheaper than microdermabrasion, and worth it for the puffin alone).
We also, of course, visited the Abbey Garden, round which Mike Nelhams, the “garden curator”, took us on a whirlwind tour. (His title is a reflection, as he himself admits, that he doesn’t get his hands terribly dirty these days.) Few people I know are genuinely, obviously happy in their jobs, but the affable Nelhams is a supreme example. He lives, breathes, lectures all over the world on, writes on and no doubt dreams about this amazing place. He even lives in this glorious subtropical garden, stuffed with exotic plants, all living outside (ie, not in protective greenhouses), over 300 of them flowering even in winter and which could not survive in soggy, cold mainland Britain. Nelhams’ enthusiasm for the diverse plant life is infectious. It was sensory overload for me – in a very good way indeed.
So all in all, a charmed place to which I would readily return, even in winter. I never felt trapped or Crusoe-like, and even loved that there were extremely limited shopping opportunities. Unless you take the ferry over to St Mary’s, you can’t, as far as I could gather, buy so much as a vest, though I did manage to add to my wardrobe with a great fisherman’s sweater, courtesy of the picturesque Gallery Tresco – pun intended: located in an old boathouse and with its view across New Grimsby Harbour, it really is picturesque.
And as it turned out, we only went to the pub twice, and then both times with the boys for a quick daytime bite, soft drinks and huge and delicious handmade Treleaven ice creams. All in all, it wasn’t quite “lashings of ginger beer”, but it was certainly every bit as jolly as an Enid Blyton tale. Five Titter in Tresco, perhaps?
tresco.co.uk